


I'm Home!

by dilaudiddreams



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: (just a little), Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Dom Aaron, Dom/sub Play, Domestic Bliss, Feminization, Fluff, Gratuitous Smut, Housewife Kink, Imagine carrying a baby for nine months and it grows up and writes this, Impact Play, M/M, Panties, Spencer is having a gender identity crisis, Sub Spencer, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29483823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilaudiddreams/pseuds/dilaudiddreams
Summary: Spencer cooks dinner. It rapidly becomes a sex thing.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid
Comments: 14
Kudos: 207





	I'm Home!

They don’t have dinner together for the first year of their marriage.

Being a unit chief, as it turns out, is a lot of work, and a lot of work means long hours, and long hours mean losing out on parts of domesticity that Spencer had been looking forward to.

He gets so _tired_ of cooking for two and then eating alone (something about packing Aaron’s entire serving away to be eaten later immediately after taking it out of its pan is uniquely depressing), and he laments to Penelope Garcia about it.

“I hear you. I don’t even know what he’s always _doing_ here so late,” she says. “Goodness, I can’t keep pretending I know what Hotch _does,_ you know? I mean, late. Beside, like, being head-honcho 9-to-5. I would be so worried.”

“ _Worried?”_ Spencer asks. 

Her eyes go wide, like they always do when she’s rambling and she’s just realized that she made a mistake. “Oh, not that he’s having an affair,” she rushes. “He - I’m _sure_ he’s not.” 

(Spencer only loses a _little_ sleep over this conversation.)

Consulting Penelope, needless to say, is no help, and Spencer finds himself complaining to Emily a few weeks later. 

“I feel like it’s been difficult for us to settle into our lives,” he says. “He always misses dinner. It’s been proven numerous times over that mealtimes are critical for family bonding, and I...I just wish he was more available.”

Emily looks up with a furrowed brow and a mouth half-full of granola bar. “Why don’t you just cook later?”

It’s manna from Heaven - an unbelievable stroke of genius.

Spencer starts cooking later in the evening. 

Over time, he finds a way to time it just right, making sure that the meal is never _quite_ ready when his husband opens the front door. 

Aaron always gets home around ten—nine-thirty, if Spencer’s lucky—and he wraps his arms around Spencer while he stands at the stove. 

It’s blissful. 

It’s a testament to whatever mockup of domesticity they’ve constructed for themselves here; a modified slice of the _honey-I’m-home_ tranquility of the 1960’s sitcom reruns Spencer used to watch while home with the flu. It’s not the perfect, idyllic image of the TV screens, but it’s _them._

Spencer, without fail, relaxes into the loving contact.

At times, he leans back over his shoulder to meet his husband in the middle for a kiss. 

More often, he just closes his eyes and lets Aaron take control of the kiss entirely. 

Aaron likes things like this. These quiet, subtle acts of submission always calm him down after a rough day. 

He’s naturally domineering, and he always finds calm in control; having the world bent around his fingertips is, in his mind, the ultimate bliss. Away from home, out in the dreaded _real world,_ he gets anxious and frustrated when any sort of matter leaves his hands, so Spencer does his best to make sure that his husband feels comfortably and consistently empowered at home. 

It’s an act of love. 

It’s not as if it’s a courtesy, either, because Spencer is the _opposite_ . He _enjoys_ surrendering himself. 

He doesn’t like making decisions. Doesn’t like pressure, doesn’t like the feeling of weight on his shoulders and obligations to _choose correctly._

Having Aaron swoop up behind him and gently take control of his body soothes him. 

They’re perfect together, really—they make each other happy simply by _being._

Aaron is strong (sturdy and broad-shouldered and muscular), and his embrace is warm and sheltering. Spencer feels overwhelmingly small and fragile in his arms. 

_(Small and fragile_ is how Derek Morgan had described him during their hand-to-hand training sessions. It had not been a compliment—the opposite, rather, something more along the lines of direct critical feedback—but Spencer remembers the words with fondness regardless. He likes being small and fragile, especially in contrast with Aaron.)

“How was your evening?” Spencer mumbles, eyes closed contentedly, relaxed against his husband’s chest. 

Aaron kisses his neck, just below his chin. “Infuriating,” he mutters against Spencer’s skin. “It never fails to amaze me how _incompetent_ people on this unit are.” 

“Mhm.” Then, after a moment of reflection: “… _I’m_ on your unit, love.” 

“Mmm.” Aaron slides a hand up under the hem of Spencer’s shirt. “Not you,” he promises. “You’re a model employee, of course.”

He kisses him again. 

“You’re always wonderful,” he whispers against Spencer’s mouth. “My lovely wife. You make our home so nice.” 

Spencer shivers.

This is a recent development in their relationship—came along with the late-evening cooking—and they’ve yet to talk about it. They’re both still pretending that it only exists in the kitchen and the bedroom and slips both of their minds anywhere else. 

Spencer doesn’t _want_ to talk about it, to be quite honest; he _knows_ how weird it is, but he _enjoys_ it. 

He doesn’t want it to end. 

It’s not just the idea of an _end_ that bothers him, though; he doesn’t want this special, secret, new thing to become part of their methodical BDSM routine, either. 

He _likes_ that this is swept under the rug—he likes being able to spend an occasional hour indulging in this fantasy of simply being _Aaron’s wife_ as opposed to male or female, and then just pretend it had never happened. 

He wants to stay right in this place forever. 

If Aaron sits him down and tells him they need to talk about all of _this_ (what it means and what the lines are, the way they always do when they introduce a new concept into the bedroom) then he’s going to have to _think_ about what it means. 

He’s not ready to do that.

Instead of thinking, he reaches a hand up to the back of Aaron’s neck and rubs at his short, prickly hair. (Spencer doesn’t care for the way Aaron cuts his hair. He wishes he’d leave it longer.)

“I always do my best for you,” he promises, tucking his head into Aaron’s chest.

His husband smells like aftershave and fresh printer ink, and Spencer wishes he could drown in it.

Aaron nips at his ear and slides his fingers up underneath the hem of his t-shirt. “You exceed my expectations.”

They make out for a while, sucking face like teenagers in front of Spencer’s pot of vegetable stew, until Aaron breaks away from the contact and slowly guides Spencer out of the kitchen by his hips.

“Hey,” Spencer protests, half-hearted as anything. “I was—” 

Aaron gently shoves him up against the kitchen table. “Sorry to take you away from your domestic work,” he says, "but dinner can wait, right?"

Spencer can’t (or maybe just _won’t)_ argue with _that._

He folds at the hips, pressing his midsection into the mahogany and arching his back as best he can. 

(Spencer has a bad habit of getting giggly and giddy during foreplay, and he finds himself biting back smiles as his husband gently gropes him through his Batman pajama pants.)

“Okay,” Aaron mumbles after a moment, cutting the shit and effortlessly tugging Spencer’s pants down to his ankles. “That’s better. 

... _Fuck_ . You look _so_ good in these, baby. I forgot.” 

Spencer’s cheeks heat up.

He’s been wearing women’s underwear as of late, for no reason other than it’s a form of gender experimentation he can easily keep secret from everyone who isn’t Aaron. It’s not a fetish—they’re not any sort of ornate, lacy panties, just plain black hipster briefs—but he’d be lying if he said they didn’t make him feel more attractive. 

He likes how the fabric stretches against his skin, the way they’re cut halfway up the curve of his asscheeks, and the way the tight cloth cradles his admittedly-small cock when he’s soft. 

They make him feel cute.

_Sexy._

Spencer doesn’t feel sexy often. 

He’s going to say thank you (a loaded thank you, _thank-you-for-indulging-my-identity-crisis_ on top of _thank-you-for-saying-my-ass-looks-good),_ but Aaron pulls his hand back and slaps his bottom with everything he’s worth before he has a chance. 

It _hurts._ It feels _wonderful._

Spencer lets out an embarrassing, high-pitched yelp. 

Aaron, an insensitive bastard, _shushes_ him. 

He extends a bit of sympathy, though, rubbing gentle, soothing circles on the raw skin where his palm had made contact. (Spencer loves Aaron’s hands—they’re larger than his by a lot, so muscular and calloused and _manly,_ and they leave the most beautiful bruises on the insides of his thighs.) 

Once the brief moment of aftershock has passed, Spencer groans quietly. 

Nothing gets him going quite like pain. 

He’s grown hard inside his panties, reeling from a single hit, and it takes a decent amount of restraint not to reach down and touch himself. 

“You’re too _strong,_ ” he whines, putting on his best bratty voice. “That _hurt.”_

“Don’t tell me how to discipline in my own house,” Aaron says. “You don’t talk back to your man, you understand me?” 

His firm, authoritative tone goes straight to Spencer’s dick, and he wriggles slightly, trying to subtly grind his erection against the edge of the table. 

Aaron, a mind-reader (or possibly just a body-reader) reaches between Spencer’s thighs to grope at his clothed cock. 

“You’re so turned on,” he says, something like contempt (artificial, Spencer knows by now) lacing his voice. “What, do you _like_ when I hit you? Show you who’s boss?” 

Spencer nods frantically. He’s aware that he’s started drooling on the table, a casualty of breathing with his mouth open, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“I can’t hear you if you don’t answer me.” 

“Yes,” Spencer rushes, almost involuntarily wiggling his hips up into Aaron’s hands, desperate for more contact. More contact _anywhere._ More pain. 

“Yes, _what?”_

“Yes, _daddy.”_

Calling Aaron _daddy_ always feels just as dirty as it had the first time. 

It’s a good dirty—an exhilarating _, addictive_ dirty, the type for which he would gladly damn himself to Hell—but dirty no less. It worms its way under his skin and fills him with brainless ecstasy. _A regular goddamn sex pollen._

“Good girl,” Aaron growls, and twenty-nine years of genius fly from Spencer’s skull as he rests his cheek against the cool tabletop, breathing sharply through the pain of his untouched erection. “Such a good wife.”

Submission has always had this effect on him. 

There’s some sort of mental threshold, and once it’s crossed, he’s nothing but a desperate sub - pure putty in his husband’s hands. There’s nothing in the world that matters right now (nothing he can think about in the _slightest)_ except for being brutally, mercilessly fucked.

Aaron (aware of this predicament and slipping into his own role), tugs the elastic band of Spencer’s panties down below the curve of his ass. They slide gracefully down his smooth, freshly-shaved legs, and he tip-toes obediently out of them, demonstrating what a good girl he is. 

His cock springs free of the fabric and stretches toward his belly. 

He _needs_ to touch himself. 

He can’t—doesn’t have permission.

“You’re so cute when you’re desperate,” Aaron says, reaching around Spencer’s hips to stroke him twice, _maliciously_ avoiding the head. “My pretty wife. My sweet girl.”

“Thank you,” Spencer whispers.

“Mhm. You want me to fuck you tonight?”

_What a stupid question._

_I always want you to fuck me._

Spencer would be content to do nothing but make dinner and take dick for the rest of his life. 

He does not say this. 

“Yes, please,” he says instead. 

Aaron pulls his hands away from Spencer’s cock and repositions himself, using his thumbs to spread Spencer’s cheeks apart and rub at the tight, puckered entrance to his hole. 

Spencer shivers.

They have a pretty active sex life for what they are, but they’ve both been busy with a cold case recently, and Spencer hasn’t been properly fucked in almost a _week._

_A_ **_week_ ** _is a dry spell?_ He thinks absently. 

_When did I start needing it multiple times per week?_

Spencer wouldn’t admit it out loud (not when Aaron already teases him about it), but he really _is_ needy. It’s embarrassing in the best possible way—his husband’s made him into such a little slut. He was a virgin when they met.

Aaron leans over to spit on his hole, and Spencer shivers as he starts pushing against the entrance.

They’re _definitely_ going to need lube _(more lube than usual, I’ve been empty all week),_ but the spitting is hot regardless. 

“You want me to fill your pussy?” Aaron half-growls, grinding gently against Spencer’s thigh. 

He’s hard in his pants, straining against the expensive fabric—enjoying this as much as Spencer is.

Spencer wiggles against him, deliberate and coquettish, and quietly breathes out something like _mhm_ or _mmm._

Aaron slaps his ass again—skin-on-skin this time, no panties to protect him, _fuck_ it hurts—and he makes a sound so wanton and obscene that he blushes as it slips past his lips. 

“Little whore,” Aaron says, distinctly affectionate. “How do you look at yourself in the mirror, hm?” 

Spencer just shakes his head, because he _doesn’t_ look in the mirror, usually. Doesn’t want to see his stupid face. 

_Smack._

_Fuck,_ that’s just not fair. 

“Gonna come,” Spencer pants.“Jus— _mph_ , I’m gonna come, daddy.”

_“What?_ No, you’re not.” Aaron steps back. “You’re not getting off before I fuck you. God, you’re _pathetic,_ you know that? _All_ I did was hit you. You know—just...stand still.” 

Aaron moves away, leaving Spencer face-down-ass-up on the kitchen table, spit dripping down his taint. 

Prior experience with kitchen sex tells him that Aaron is retrieving their lube. 

It occurs to him to be embarrassed, or even nervous—he’s so vulnerable, resting his head in his palms, standing naked from the waist down with the most sensitive parts of him on display—but the thought goes nowhere. 

He’d welcome anything Aaron said or did to him right now. 

_Anything but leave me standing here._

Aaron walks back into the kitchen after what feels like a million years, and he positions himself behind Spencer without fanfare. 

“You cold?” He asks, uncapping the lubricant and squirting it onto his fingers.

Spencer doesn’t understand him at first. “Hm?”

“Are you cold?” 

Actually, he _is_ a little cold - it hadn’t occurred to him until Aaron brought it up. He hums noncommittally and props himself up on his elbows, relaxing his pelvic floor in anticipation.

Aaron slowly, carefully presses his index finger into his entrance. It burns just the tiniest bit as he pumps, and Spencer whines softly at the familiar, welcoming bliss of being _full._

Full of his husband.

Aaron continues stretching him (always careful, never rushing the preparation process no matter how much Spencer complains and whines about it), adding a second finger and applying enough lubricant to produce a filthy, decadent _squelching_ sound. 

“You’re so _wet,”_ he groans, moving his fingers in a scissoring motion. The movement is rapid and deep, but it’s not painful—they do this often enough that they can wordlessly work together to open Spencer up without hurting him. (Aaron is always gentle where he needs to be.) “Your pussy’s so _wet_ for me, baby. _Dripping,_ God, I wish you could see your pretty wet cunt.”

Spencer can’t do anything but moan his husband’s name, loud and high and borderline-feral, as if he were some kind of wild animal in heat. 

It’s atrocious; he _hates_ the way he sounds when he’s getting fucked. If _he_ were a gorgeous, well-off older man, he wouldn’t go anywhere near himself. 

_To each, his own._

Aaron just laughs. (Spencer can’t tell if it’s affectionate or mocking laughter, and he’s not sure he cares.) “I know. That feels good, right? You like your big, strong man taking care of you?”

_Fuck._

“Yes,” he whimpers. “Please take care of me? I need you.” 

“You need me for what?”

Spencer closes his eyes and breathes laboriously for a moment, feeling his heart beating frantically between his legs. 

He’s abysmal at dirty talk. 

He always has been. 

_“Spencer,”_ Aaron demands, when he inhales three-and-a-half more times without answering the question. 

He smacks his ass again, and Spencer cries out. 

The pain makes him vibrate - a warm, electric current from his thighs to his eyebrows - and he leaks precum onto his belly. 

“Do you hear me? Don’t be a dumb girl. I know you can answer. You need me for _what?”_

“I n...I need you inside me.” 

_Can’t go wrong with that, right?_

Aaron grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his face off of the table. “Inside _where?_ ” 

“My…hole?” 

_Smack._

Spencer thinks to himself that if Aaron hits him again, he’s _definitely_ going to come. 

_What was it he called me?_

_A painslut?_

_Yes—that._

Spencer is a _painslut._

“Do pretty girls ask for it in their _hole?”_ Aaron growls, grabbing Spencer by the chin and jerking his face back and forth. There’s no reason for this - he’s just showing off. He can move any part of Spencer any way he wants, and Spencer will take it gladly.

“No,” Spencer admits, though he imagines some of them do. He happens to know Penelope and Emily have tried it out. (Penelope has a tendency to overshare.) “Please, I…I need it in my…pussy?” 

It’s such an odd thing to hear himself say, and he’s taken aback by how much he _likes_ it. Goosebumps rear up and down his arms, and Aaron, misunderstanding, rubs at the skin as if to warm him up. 

“That’s my good girl,” he mumbles, kissing Spencer’s neck. His breath is unbearably hot, and it’s almost too much.

Spencer hears Aaron unbuckling his belt. He’s developed an almost Pavlovian response to the sound - his cock twitches.

It hasn’t occurred to him until now that Aaron is still in his button-up and slacks, and he finds himself biting back a moan at the idea of his husband fucking him in his work clothes. It adds to the domestic effect.

Aaron places a hand on the small of Spencer’s back and lines himself up with his entrance. He’s thick and hot and blunt against the tight muscle, and Spencer wriggles his feet apart and relaxes his core to allow him entry. 

He pushes in with a pleasant, familiar burning sensation, bottoming out in one swift, dedicated thrust. The movement strikes a chord of pride in what’s left of Spencer’s conscious mind - Aaron is _big,_ and the fact that he _knows_ that Spencer can take all of him ( _he doesn’t even have to ask anymore,_ Spencer thinks) makes him feel giddy. 

Aaron swears under his breath and runs his hands up Spencer’s body. 

“Your waist is so pretty,” he mutters. “You’re so small. So feminine.”

Spencer just whimpers in response. He’s drooling on the table again, and every inch of his being feels like it’s on _fire._ He feels pathetic. 

He likes it. 

There’s something about this quiet moment of intimacy between shoving seven inches of cock inside of Spencer and fucking his brains out that always renders Aaron uncharacteristically sappy, and Spencer would roll his eyes at the sudden feeling of his husband’s hand on his cheek if he were any more cognisant. 

“Spencer?” Aaron mumbles. 

“M-hm?”

“I love you, sweetheart.” 

Spencer sighs and lets his eyes flutter shut. “Mm. I...fuck me?” 

Something about the energy behind him shifts, and he thinks he might’ve hurt Aaron’s feelings (he _does_ have them, contrary to popular belief), but before he can say anything, he’s being lifted onto his toes and _slammed_ against the table. 

He loses himself in white-hot ecstasy, feeling nothing of his limbs or his face (but for the fact that his knees give out and Aaron holds him up by his hips). There’s nothing in the world - nothing he’s aware of, nothing that _matters,_ except for the burning coil of pleasure in his middle, the desperate ache of his neglected erection, and his husband’s cock inside of him.

_“Daddy,”_ he whimpers, because he’s so completely lost in himself and it’s what feels _natural._

“I’m here,” Aaron pants, bending at the waist to fold himself over Spencer’s body. “ _Shh,_ I’m right here. I'm gonna fill you up. My pretty wife, my pretty girl. _Shit,_ baby, your pussy’s so tight.”

Spencer weakly thrusts his hips back against Aaron’s body. “Please!”

“Please what? Huh?”

It takes him a moment to remember what he’s asking for. 

“Touch me?” 

“No,” Aaron says, and Spencer sobs. “I wan’ - want you to come on my cock. On your own. Squirt for me, just like a girl. I know you can do it.”

“I _can’t!”_

(This is not true - Spencer has come untouched too many times to count.) 

“Come on. Yes you can. I know you can.”

Spencer starts to cry - he can’t help it, and he feels sorry enough for himself that he wouldn’t be embarrassed even if he _could_ \- but channels all of his energy into making himself come untouched, anyway.

_I’m a good girl._

The sound of Aaron’s hips hitting his own is _obscene,_ and he thinks his face is starting to bruise where it’s pressed against the table. Aaron is hitting his prostate over and over and _over,_ and propping his hips up with _one hand._

_He’s so strong._

_He’s such a man, takes such good care of me, fucks me so good._

It’s the last thought Spencer has before he sees stars behind his eyelids and keens from deep, _deep_ inside of his throat. 

The force pulling on every one of his muscle fibres snaps back and gives out, and he spasms against the table. 

He spurts onto his belly (making a no-doubt disgusting, sticky mess) and goes limp against Aaron’s strong, calloused hand. He closes his eyes and relaxes, trusting his husband to keep him safe and comfortable and upright as he rocks into him. 

Spencer is still dazed, and he’s not sure he’s perceiving time, but he doesn’t _think_ it’s much longer before Aaron stills and comes inside of him.

_The warmth and affection inherent in being creampied,_ Spencer thinks, _is an underrated form of intimacy._

They stay connected for a moment, Aaron pressed up against Spencer’s back as they catch breath (and Spencer _tries_ to catch footing) before Aaron pulls out and yanks his pants back up.

Spencer weakly, involuntarily whines at the emptiness. He’s gaping. He can’t see, but he can _tell,_ and it feels gross and irritating.

_Maybe the warmth and affection inherent in being creampied is underrated because it’s a forty-five second endeavor._

“We should get you cleaned up, hm?” Aaron asks, moving across the kitchen in search of a paper towel.

Spencer props himself up on an unstable, trembling arm and looks at the mess of various bodily fluids he’s made on their nice mahogany. 

“We should get _everything_ cleaned up,” he grumbles.

“We’ll clean up,” Aaron agrees, running a folded paper towel under warm water, “then dinner. Then we can watch Star Trek. I’m getting invested.” 

Spencer smiles. 

“We’re so boring,” he mumbles happily.

“That happens when you settle down.”


End file.
